The Grimmest of Games
by K. Zak
Summary: They're back. Both of them. It's John's turn to play.
1. Chapter 1: The Message

**[[AN NOTE: This is brand new, but it will definitely be updated! Sorry to keep you waiting.]]**_  
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_Please._

"Stay exactly where you are."

He broke into a run.

"Don't move."

He wouldn't stay still. He ran.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

If he could just reach the spot in time, he could find away to stop this from happening.

"Goodbye, John."

He tried to scream out, but his lungs failed him. They failed him every time. He watched as the man's body crashed to the ground.

_Please don't be dead._

Cold skin turned pale. Warm blood stained the pavement.

He had failed again.

John Watson woke with a start, bolting upright in his bed. He shivered in the darkness, sweat beading on his forehead and tears chilling his cheeks. His heart was racing and his breath rattled as it entered his lungs. Leaning forward, he cupped his face in his sweaty palms and tried to gain control over his body.

It was still dark out. After waiting in the silence to which his own unsteady breathing was the only exception, he looked up at the window and sighed shakily.

For years, John Watson's dreams were plagued by memories of his years at war; that is, until recently. For the last three months, he had woken from nightmares every night, each one revisiting the same dreadful day. For three months, he had dreamt of the day his best friend died right before his eyes.

One variation of the nightmare was not worse than the other. Every night, John would listen to his friend's last words through the phone. He would always try to stop the man from falling to his death; yet no matter what he did, he watched his only friend's blood spill into the street.

It had been just over three months since Sherlock died. Even if subconsciously, John had been keeping a count. It had been exactly three months, one week, six days, and nine hours. John glanced over at the clock beside his bed.

2:59

3:00

Ten hours.

John sighed again. He knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep; it would only mean resubmitting to the torture that was his nightmares. He did not desire sleep, and it did not beckon. Instead, he stood up and got dressed. He refused to spend another minute of this sleepless night cooped up all alone inside his flat.

He pulled on his overcoat and felt his phone like dead weight in his pocket. He hardly ever used it anymore, but he kept it with him all the same. Pulling the zipper up to his collarbone, he walked carefully down the steps to the front door. He was sure to skip the stairs that always creaked so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson.

She would worry about John when she woke up to a deserted flat, but it wouldn't be the first time he had disappeared without warning.

Perhaps he wasn't all alone in the flat, after all; but he might as well have been.

John stepped outside into the frigid London air. He considered hailing a cab as he turned to lock the door, then reminded himself that it was three in the morning. He would walk. Shoving his hands in his pockets, his mind began to wander. He didn't bother wondering where he would possibly want to go at this hour; he had made this trip so many times that he didn't even have to think about it. His feet knew the way to Sherlock's grave far too well.

With the streets devoid of the usual lively crowd, it seemed a much longer journey to John. He was also not accompanied by Mrs. Hudson, who usually agreed to join him to pay respects to Sherlock. Naturally, he hadn't invited her this time. Thus, he continued alone and in silence.

When he finally reached Sherlock's resting place, John immediately felt uneasy. He pushed past a gate and approached the black marker from behind.

John clamped his hand over his mouth to smother a strangled cry. He couldn't tear his eyes away from it. On the sleek surface of the tombstone was a large, smiling face, not unlike one a child would draw in the frost on a window in the winter. The white paint was still wet and dripped down the smooth surface. John felt his heart rate picking up as he stared at the graffiti, his emotions swirling through his head in a frenzy. Anger; confusion; terror. He knew this symbol, and he didn't like what it signified.

But that was impossible.

As he thought this, his phone went off in his pocket. He jumped, startled, then fumbled to take it out.

A new text.

At this hour?

John nervously opened the message and read, his hands shaking.

The phone slipped out of John's hand and hit the dirt. He stumbled backward, unable to process what he just read.

_We're both waiting for you._

_Come out and play._

_ —JM_


	2. Chapter 2: Let the Games Begin

John paced fretfully in front of the iron gate, his eyes flitting anxiously to the corner where the street turned left and out of sight. In his panic, he had called everyone he could think of. Wringing his hands, he turned and walked briskly back to the ebony gravestone. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek as he stared at the painted white face, smiling as if to mock him. His heart was still racing; his head ached.

For the first time since Sherlock's death, John was scared.

At the sound of a car's engine and metal brakes squealing behind him, John turned over his shoulder. He sighed with relief, crossed the cemetery, and trotted down to the road, where two cars had pulled up. Out stepped Greg Lestrade from the first car, pushing his fingers through his grey hair. He was followed by a very stern-faced man dressed in a tailored suit and donning a grave expression: Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. The two men approached John, and Lestrade extended a hand to John. He took it and shook it once, then swallowed, lacking anything to say. Mycroft simply nodded and checked his watch, then hastily made his way to his brother's grave as his expression hardened.

As Lestrade passed John to follow Mycroft, John turned back to the street to see Anderson leaning against the hood of the second car, scribbling notes to himself on a pad of paper; and then there was Molly. John hadn't contacted her that morning; yet he wasn't surprised to see her approaching him. As she got closer, he noticed the blotchy redness tinting her cheeks; she had been crying. Molly pushed a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear and sniffed.

"Is it true?" She asked, her voice trembling. John inhaled deeply and nodded. She swallowed, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I don't imagine you've told Mrs. Hudson yet, have you?"

"No, John replied, "I didn't want to upset her. It was early, after all. Perhaps I'll talk to her about it this afternoon." He balled up his hands at his sides only to release them again as he felt his stress weighing him down. He watched Molly press her lips together and wipe her nose with a handkerchief. "Molly," he said in an undertone, "You don't have to be here. I know it's a lot..." He looked up and stopped, his voice trailing off. Molly Hooper, who was clearly an emotional wreck, had the look of strength in her sad eyes.

"He was my friend, too," She said quietly, offering a small smile. John nodded and guided Molly towards the grave by her shoulder.

They both shuddered at the sight of the eerie display, the paint dried in mid-drip. Molly clamped a hand over her mouth, fighting back a sob, and Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as if in deep thought. John patted Molly's shoulder, then skirted around the grave to where Lestrade was crouching, examining the graffiti. He began answering questions and filling in the details of his incident, his eyes locked on the face. He thought back to those ten little words that completed the picture.

_We're both waiting for you._

_Come out and play._

_—JM _

He knew he didn't want to keep that part of the message to himself; yet he knew that if Moriarty wanted everyone to see the note, he could have easily sent it to any mobile phone in England. He had those resources, that power. John still struggled to wrap his mind around the idea that the man could still be alive. He grimaced as he reconstructed the unforgettable face in his mind, a subtle smirk plastered there to shroud the mastermind within. The consulting criminal.

John stood for a moment, frozen, then fished his phone once again out of his pocket. He quickly pulled up the ominous text message and slipped the mobile into Molly's hand.

"This came with it," He whispered. She glanced up, then stared at the screen, reading the words over and over again. She gulped.

"Who...sent you this?" She choked out, tearing her eyes from the screen to meet John's. A look was enough; both knew exactly who was behind the display, and neither wanted to admit it. Fears confirmed, Molly looked down at the words again, then handed the phone back to John and took a shaky breath. "Any idea what he wants?"

John slipped his mobile back into his pocket, gazing grimly at Sherlock's headstone.

"Just what he said," he replied, his voice weighted with dread, "He wants me to play his game."

Molly hesitated. "Will you?"

John breathed deeply, turning the question over in his mind. _We're both waiting for you. Come out and play. _Moriarty was no one to be trifled with; yet what John felt was neither confusion nor fear. There was one thing he knew, and one thing that mattered: Sherlock was alive.

Would he play Moriarty's game?

"What choice do I have?"

Let the games begin.


	3. Chapter 3: The Key

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting so long for this chapter and I'm very appreciative of your patience. Time between chapters will definitely not be nearly this long in the future._

_Additionally, I apologize for all the editing I've done to this chapter after uploading it. I always have lots of technical difficulties with uploading so I have to proofread prior to updating._

* * *

Back at the flat, John had hardly removed his coat before a flustered Mrs. Hudson bustled up to him, looking anxious yet composed. She rambled on about how worried she had been when she woke up and he wasn't around and the call she received from Lestrade, all whilst fussing over his hair and clothing unnecessarily in an attempt to remain poised.

"I'm fine, alright?" John interrupted, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Really," he added with a small smile. A troubled expression crossed Mrs. Hudson's face, but she nodded and sighed.

"I'm going out," she said finally, "to…see for myself." John didn't really favor the idea, but he returned the nod and kissed her cheek before stepping out of the doorway. He removed his shoes and tossed them to the side, but as he climbed the stairs Mrs. Hudson summoned him back.

"Just a moment, John!" she called after him, pulling on an overcoat, "There was a letter for you this morning. Not sure when it showed up, really…I left it on the server." John turned around and descended the stairs again, eying the envelope on the small table near the door.

"I'll be back in an hour, Dear," Mrs. Hudson said, tightening the knot in her scarf as she stepped outside, "Have something to eat!" John grunted in acknowledgement and studied the envelope as the door clicked shut. He picked it up, noting a small item sliding around inside. Brow furrowed, he flipped it over and read the back. _Dr. John Watson_. He stared at the neat, unfamiliar penmanship in frustration. No return address, no name. He scaled the stairs once more and removed his coat, dropping it onto the back of his armchair. He had left the flat fifteen minutes or so after three that morning; it was now just past seven. _Post is never delivered this early_, he thought. Then again, nowhere on the envelope had 221B Baker Street been written, so he assumed it had been delivered by hand.

Suddenly, he was aware of how very exhausted he felt. He looked up from the envelope in confusion, and his eyes lingered on the far wall where a yellow, painted face smiled back at him mockingly. He stared at the haunting grin, puzzled, and the image of Sherlock's graffiti-covered gravestone flashed behind his eyes. Sitting down wearily in the chair, he dropped the envelope in his lap and rubbed his face, feeling both physically and emotionally racked; although he couldn't decide which idea was most overwhelming: the possibility that Sherlock could be alive…or the fear that Moriarty was still out there, watching John squirm.

Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. The most dangerous men John Watson would ever meet.

He shook his head and sighed, picking up the envelope and examining it once more before tentatively sliding his thumb under the flap. It came up cleanly; taking a breath, he unfolded the paper and peered inside.

Perhaps he was relieved, but the curious contents of the envelope were not at all what John had expected (although, he supposed, he hadn't known what to expect at all). Tipping the opened envelope forward, a small, metallic key slid into the palm of his open hand. Pinching it between his fingertips, he held it up to his face, squinting at it inquisitively. It was rather plain—silver with a symmetrical, double-serrated edge. He frowned and placed the key carefully on the arm of the chair, then looked back inside the envelope. All that remained was a small slip of paper, neatly folded—but too small to be a letter. As John retrieved it from the envelope and unfolded it, a chill shivered through him and he found himself staring at three short lines of neatly penned text, signed with the all-too-familiar initials.

_I don't suppose you fancy hide-and-go-seek…do you, John?_

_Ready or not, here I come!_

_-JM_

_P.S—What's in a name?_

The seemingly interminable silence was only interrupted by the tinny ringing of his mobile, which he had left in his coat pocket. He shuddered and swallowed arbitrarily, then reached around to the back of the chair and felt his way into the pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the screen for a moment, where "CALL FROM MOLLY H." flashed in little white letters, before punching the small receiving button with his thumb.

"Molly," He said, trying to keep his voice level.

"John," she replied promptly, "I need you to stop by Bart's today." Her words were hushed and clipped. John hesitated, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue in confusion.

"Uh…yeah, okay," he said finally, standing up. "When?"

"Soon as you can," she mumbled. "We need to talk. Look, I've gotta go. Stop by, alright?" With that she hung up abruptly, and John was left alone with the monotone buzz of the dead receiver. He ended the curt call and stuffed his phone into the pocket of his jeans. For a long time, he stared at the letter, reading it over and over again with no company aside from the oblivious hum of the city outside his flat.

_What's in a name?_

_Why did Molly want to talk?_ She probably still felt troubled by the events of the morning—John didn't blame her. He felt a headache coming on as he pulled his coat and descended to stairs to the entryway; stepping outside once more onto Baker Street, he accepted that this was going to be a very long day.


End file.
